Harry Hunter felt a little better after she coaxed him: "Then do you want some roast chicken?"
"No." How could she dare eat it? The chicken wasn't gifted by her; he brought it back himself. If she ate it, that would be a problem.
"So obedient."
Harry Hunter kissed her, adjusted her clothes, and sat her on his lap, opening the roast chicken package: "Eat, I've heard you love this, so I didn't throw it away. The chicken is innocent; it would be a pity to waste it."
The roast chicken seemed freshly cooked, still emitting a bit of heat, with an enticing golden exterior, aromatic, making it very appetizing.
Harry Hunter tore a piece of meat and offered it to Isabella Weaver's lips: "Try it."
Isabella Weaver hesitated for a moment but still opened her mouth to eat.
The taste was indeed good, but she honestly couldn't remember ever liking this flavor of roast chicken.
Most of her childhood memories were painful; she hardly ever looked back.
